Page 39 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
"It's yours," I say simply. "I thought you might want a space to continue your gardening. Leonid mentioned it was important to you."
I unlock the greenhouse door, stepping back to allow her to enter first. Inside, state-of-the-art equipment sits discreetly among an astonishing variety of plants. A potting station occupies one corner, stocked with every tool and material a gardener might require. Along the far wall, empty spaces await her personal touches and her decisions about what else belongs here.
Wil moves slowly through the space, trailing her fingers over leaves and petals, her expression shifting subtly with each new discovery. The blank mask she's worn since the attack begins to crack, revealing glimpses of the woman beneath.
She pauses before a section of roses similar to her treasured plant, bending to inhale their scent. The simple, sensory action seems to center her in the present moment in a way nothing else has managed since the attack.
I remain near the entrance, giving her space to explore this gift without pressure. The sight of her moving with purpose for the first time in days feels like its own reward, regardless of whether she chooses to acknowledge the gesture.
When she finally turns back toward me, something has changed in her eyes. The vacancy has given way to a complicated mix of emotions. Grief is still dominant but now accompanied by confusion, wonder, and the faintest glimmer of appreciation. "Why did you do this?" Her voice is rusty from disuse but stronger than before.
I consider and discard several potential answers before settling on the simplest truth. "Because it mattered to you."
She touches a perfect rose bloom, her fingers gentle against the velvet petals. For a long moment, she says nothing, and I prepare myself for rejection, for her to dismiss this gesture as an empty attempt to buy her forgiveness or cooperation.
Instead, she continues her exploration, moving toward the rear of the greenhouse, where glass doors open onto the garden beyond. I follow at a respectful distance, watching as she discovers the stone pathways winding between carefully selected plantings, the small pond with water lilies just beginning to open, and the comfortable bench positioned beneath a flowering cherry tree.
"This would have taken weeks to create," she says finally, turning back to face me, appearing faintly confused, or maybe just suspicious.
"Normally, yes, but money and motivation can compress timelines considerably."
She nods slowly, processing this evidence of the power and resources at my disposal. A reminder, perhaps, of why she feared me in the first place. "Thank you," she says quietly, the words clearly difficult for her. "It's beautiful."
This simple acknowledgment feels more significant than any effusive gratitude from another person might. From Wil, in her current state, these two words represent a monumental concession.
"You can come here whenever you wish. Day or night. I've arranged for this area to remain private. No security personnel will enter unless specifically called." I don’t tell her every inch of the route from the house to the greenhouse is under constant visual and audio surveillance, and there are cameras in the greenhouse as well.
It’s not to invade her privacy but to ensure her protection. There’s also a panic button on the panel that monitors the temperature and light, but since it’s very obviously labeled, I don’t mention it now. There’s no reason to remind her of all the reasons she has to not want me in her or the babies’ lives.
The sun shifts streams through the glass, warming us both as we stand in silence. For the first time since that terrible night, she doesn't step away when I move to stand beside her. Instead, she remains still, her gaze fixed on the garden before us, her expression thoughtful rather than vacant.
It's not forgiveness. It's not even acceptance of her new circumstances, but as we watch sunlight dance across the blooms created just for her, I allow myself to hope it might be the beginning of something close to peace between us.
The smallest victory, perhaps, but right now, it feels like enough.
16
Wil
Iwake disoriented again, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling above me. The enormous bedroom with its silk sheets and antique furniture feels like a hotel suite rather than a place where someone actually lives. Then reality crashes back, the memories rushing in with brutal clarity. Gisele. Blood. Gunshots. The nightmare that brought me here.
Three days have passed since I arrived at Makari Vorobev's estate, though it feels both longer and shorter somehow. Time has lost meaning in this liminal space between my old life and whatever this new existence will become.
I push back the Egyptian cotton sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The plush carpet feels impossibly soft against my bare feet. Even the small luxuries here feel excessive, designed to impress rather than comfort. The walk-in closet has been filled with designer maternity clothes in my size, tags still attached. The bathroom gleams with marble and gold fixtures. Everything is beautiful, and nothing feels real.
My rosebush sits on the windowsill instead of my nightstand now, catching the morning light. It's the only familiar thing in this gilded cage, the only object that feels truly mine. I cross to it, checking the soil moisture with my fingertip. The familiar routine lets me focus momentarily.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. "Come in," I call, stepping back from the window.
A uniformed maid enters, her gaze downcast as she carries in a breakfast tray. "Good morning, Miss Lamb. I've brought your breakfast."
She places the tray on a small table by the window and busies herself opening the curtains fully, still avoiding direct eye contact. The deference makes me deeply uncomfortable. I'm not used to being served or having people tiptoe around me as if I might shatter or explode.
"Thank you." I approach the table, eyeing the elaborate spread of bacon, fresh fruit, pastries, and what appears to be a custom smoothie designed for pregnancy nutrition. "This is too much food for one person."
The maid finally glances up, surprise flickering across her features before she regains her composure. "The chef can prepare something different if this isn't to your liking."
"No, it's fine. It's just...a lot." I sit down, picking up a strawberry. "What's your name?"
